


Variance

by temperamentalTerpsichorean (Nonna_Mouse)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Bro is actually a decent brother, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Emotional neglect, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, He just sucks at being a guardian, Implied/Referenced Sex, Pre-Sburb, not stridercest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonna_Mouse/pseuds/temperamentalTerpsichorean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight you were utterly unsuitable to raise a child. You didn't really understand emotions, and you were a DJ and puppet porn site owner. Not to mention that humanity in general was a mystery to you, yet you'd fumbled through this shit as best as you could. But as you block another attack, the sound of steel against steel grating in your ears on this godforsaken disk on a blistering hot planet, you pray to whatever passed as God in this place that you'd at least prepared him to succeed and end this game.</p><p>You lose your footing on a groove in the disk below you, and the dog-monster thing takes his chance. You don't even feel it when the sword goes through you and everything goes black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ==> Bro: Adopt A Baby.

 Well considering the little asshole had _literally fallen out of the sky and demolished your record shop what the fuck_ , you guessed you could at least take him to the police first and checked to see if he was a missing kid.

  After checking through the missing persons database and the inter-state database, the lady at the desk sighed and asked if you would let him be taken to a foster home or would care for him yourself. You said no to foster care, your voice unexpectedly sharp even to your ears.

  A bit taken aback, she then handed you a pamphlet with all the information on how to go about adopting a child and told you that since he wasn't in any of the missing children files and basically didn't even have a birth certificate or even a name it was best for him to get a guardian of some kind. She then let you return home with a card scribbled with the date of a scheduled visit from a social worker to check the state of the living arrangements.

  As you shop for all the baby crap you guessed you now needed, you stewed. You don't even know how to interact with normal people, much less raise a child. And adoption was a long process that could take years, if you were considered suitable at all. The HPD may not give much of a shit, but you think that maybe a CPS social worker might. Fuck, how would you support both yourself and the kid? He kind of destroyed your shop, and while you had the site you'd only just started posting videos and selling your augmented puppets. You guessed you could catch more gigs at the local clubs, but that wasn't going to be enough to keep food on the table forever. 

  Your face remains blank as you grab some formula cans and a couple plastic baby bottles at the CVS near your apartment, and you shuffle the kid into your other arm with the pack of diapers you grabbed as you walked in. He didn't have anywhere to go, and you weren't about to leave him in foster care. You'd been through it once yourself, you didn't wish it on any kid.

  You don't even know why you'd blurted out that you'd take him when the subject was brought up. And as you hand the cashier all the baby crap you just picked up, you're beginning to wonder how on earth you're even going to be a parent. It didn't really mesh with your whole "unflappable cool DJ" demeanor. You swipe your card and sign with one hand, and then grab the bag while keeping a hold on the kid.

  "I guess I can start by naming you," you mumble to the runt. He stares at you with the cloudy-looking blue that all infants seem to have, and then shoves a fist in his mouth. You think a bit, and it comes to you.

  "How about James Earl?"

  The kid strains for a bit, and then farts. You put the crap in your truck and sat him in the baby seat you had picked up after the police office.

  "Jimmy Dean?"

  The baby stares. You clear your throat uncomfortably.

  "Dave Lee?"

  The baby smirks. You put the key in the ignition, and start up your old Ford. "Dave Lee Strider it is."

  He claps his pudgy little hands as you drive off, and you shake your head. Strider, what are you getting yourself into?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off a fic I had begun a year ago, as well as a conversation I'd had a month or two ago with [Anansi](http://the-great-anansi.tumblr.com/) in our group chat where we agreed that Bro is a normal and actually pretty awesome brother but totally sucks at parenting. We also toyed with the idea that Bro/Dirk may actually be a high-functioning autistic (which Anansi would know a lot about) so this monstrosity was born. I'm probably going to piss off the "Bro is abusive on purpose" camp in the fandom with this interpretation, but I'm just doing this based on those ideas and my own experiences as one of the three caregivers for my younger brother, who is thirteen years younger than me. Kind of going stream-of-consciousness with this one.
> 
> Also this long note thing at the end won't be common practice, I just wanted to put out there the basis behind this behemoth. I promise I don't swear nearly as much as Bro/Dirk does, but in the interest of style and staying relatively true to the character I'm going to have swearing and put this as Teen rated.


	2. ==> Bro: Survive The First Week.

**_Monday_ **

  You come out from the bathroom, only to see that Dave is no longer in his carseat where you left him.

  Goddamn it.

  It takes you thirty minutes, before you hear the crashing of multiple metal objects falling. You turn to the kitchen to see Dave standing inches away from an open cabinet and many of your spare katanas on the floor. You swoop, pick him up, and then point at the swords.

  "No. We don't play with those." You point to him. "No playing."

  You repeat yourself a few times, until it seems like he gets it. You then put him back in the seat, and clean up the mess he made while you attempt to slow your thudding heart.

 

_**Tuesday** _

  You put Dave next to Cal on the couch, and start flipping though channels. It's hot today, and Dave is only in a diaper while you are in boxers and your shades. You're feeling pretty confident that Dave can't get into the cabinets now; you'd ran by Walmart after cleaning up yesterday and picked up some babyproofing for the kitchen and electrical. Babies are like tiny drunk adults, no way he's getting through that.

  You hear a dull thud and turn abruptly. Dave is tangled in Cal's arms and legs, on the floor.

  It takes a moment for it to click, and you suddenly swoop in and check him over for blood. _How could you have let him fall on the floor?_

  Dave is not crying. You keep an eye on him just to be sure; for all you know he could have given himself a concussion, and you watch him for the rest of the day to make sure he's not suddenly tired or acting strange.

 

**_Wednesday_ **

  You'd pulled all the shuriken and hand puppets out of the sink, and now have a bottle of baby shampoo in one hand and Dave in the sink before you, naked and confused-looking. You shake the bottle upside down into your hand, but nothing comes out. You squeeze hard, and still nothing comes out. Dave tilts his head at you.

  You shake, squeeze, and even pound the bottom like a bottle of ketchup, to the twerp's increasing amusement. Finally, you look into the tiny hole in the bottle, and realize what's wrong.

  You wordlessly remove the cap and peel off the protective foil, while Dave smirks and blows bubbles in the lukewarm water.

 

**_Thursday_ **

  You finally tear your face away from your computer screen when Dave begins crying around six AM. Tired from filling orders and moderating the site forum, you shuffle into what used to be your room and lift Dave out of bed then work your way into the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle and going through the motions, you feel yourself nod off a couple times before you figure out how to screw on the lid while half-asleep. You stick the thing into Dave's face, before realizing what you put in there.

  A carton of apple juice sits right next to the preprepared bottle of formula on the counter. You look down disbelievingly at Dave, who happily sucks away at a full bottle of sugar and apple concentrate. You blink, shake your head, and then leave him in his carseat next to Cal while he drinks.

  Surely it can't hurt him just this once.

 

**_Friday_ **

  You come home from the club just shy of midnight, and thank your neighbor Ms. Paint for keeping an eye on Dave while you were gone. She murmurs a kind "de nada" as she walks out, and you set your stuff on the ground next to the futon before checking on Dave.

  His cloudy eyes are closed, hair falling in golden filaments over his untroubled, powder-soft forehead. His mousy lashes lay gently on the tops of his cheeks, caressing his freckles. You reach a hand to pull the covers up around his tiny shoulders, and you nod at Cal in the corner (how he got there from your stuff in the living room you didn't care to find out) before turning on the night light and shutting the door softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything except Monday has happened at one point or another with my own brother. Yes, even the part where I forgot to peel the foil off the bottle.


	3. ==> Bro: Stop Freaking Out.

  Nah man you're not freaking out. No way, you're cool as a cucumber. COOLER, even.

  You're totally freaking out.

  Dave is wailing in your left arm while you chuck a box of smuppets into the crawlspace without climbing the steps. The social worker is coming in an hour and while the place is somewhat presentable, you forgot to clean out the cabinets and sent a hail of plush sex toys raining down on yourself when doing a final sweep. It had been hard, but with Ms. Paint's help you'd managed to tape down the wires to all your stuff (choking hazard) and managed to hide the stuff one would think dangerous to a small child.

  "Dave, bro, ya gotta calm the fuck down," you mutter to the screaming creature in your arms. He proceeds to whack you in the face and flail his arms.

  You'd tried feeding him, changing him, even gave him Cal to play with, and nothing worked. You finally just put him down on the futon before you shake the everloving crap out of him. Better to have him somewhere safe and crying than do something you regret. As you stow the last of everything and hurriedly slam the crawlspace door closed, your buzzer goes off and you swear. The social worker.

  You buzz them in, grab a still-wailing Dave, and wait until you hear a knock on the door. A wiry man with a strange beige wrap-shirt and beige slacks greets you at the door. You bite back the urge to comment on why a dude like that would be a social worker as you let him in. He regards you curiously.

  "Honestly, not the worst guardian I've seen today. Much less seen in the past eight years."

  He walks past you and surveys your apartment. It's still not the cleanest, but at least your various puppets and weapons are put away and the trash is picked up. Dave is still crying until the guy comes up and blows a raspberry in his face. You don't have time to be shocked or indignant before Dave looks at him, grins, and blows one back. The guy gives a nod.

  "Since this is just a quick cursory visit, I just need to see the nursery and then ask a few questions."

  You nod dumbly and point the way.

  He's evidently okay with the bedroom, which has a pack 'n play in it because you can't afford a crib, because he comes out and holds out a hand. "Sorry for my rudeness, I'm Mr. Wayward. Once we finish the questions I'll leave."

  You take him to the futon, which was back in couch mode. You answer his questions blandly, not sure what to do or say. How is the baby eating? How is he sleeping? What is his weight and length? You rattle off answers while the guy scribbles and then measures Dave's head. Dave is calm the whole time, evidently entertained by Wayward (what kind of name even is that??) and his actions. After an excruciating hour, Wayward clicks his pen and nods.

  "Well the apartment is adequate and you're clearly caring for him. You're an entrepreneur, but you also have steady work as a DJ and you have a reliable babysitter so I'm not concerned about the stability of the household. It's a lot better situation than some I've seen, so he can stay here. I'll be coming by for visits every three months or so."

  You nod. You know how this works.

  "Well Mr. Strider, I'll see you next time. I have the card of a good pediatrician at the local clinic, so you should get him in for a checkup soon. I'll be calling about it."

  You nod and take the little business card he's holding out to you before letting him out and shutting the door. You're still wondering a few minutes later when Dave goes down for his nap how you managed to even pull that off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am actually back in some capacity! Sorry for the long hiatus. Getting pregnant and having a baby will do that to you. Now that my kid is six months old I can usually get some time in to write during naps so I'll try to update once a week.
> 
> This chapter is actually based off something that happens where I live. See, the government here assigns a caseworker when you have a child and the caseworker keeps track of your child's growth and comes in for an inspection of the home shortly after birth. So this is loosely based off that situation.


End file.
